


glass cannon

by bratwonders



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Trying, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bullying, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne-centric, Depression, Diary/Journal, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, F/M, Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne, Islamophobia, M/M, Middle School, Panic Attacks, Protective Bruce Wayne, Racism, and we love him for it, but he still tries, damian is not white !, damian isnt a writer, hes trying tho, im sorry i make him suffer it just happens, undiagnosed depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratwonders/pseuds/bratwonders
Summary: As he has learned, though, it didn’t take much to break such a strong man. A glass cannon, as they called it.It’s the reason Damian knew he would be a fine successor. Superior, even. His father busied himself with children — with love and emotions and friendships. A foolish mistake on a hero’s part.Didn’t he know heroes could never be happy?
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Comments: 28
Kudos: 266





	1. Chapter 1

Damian heard his father before he saw him. Ironically, his father was not very stealthy in the manor. His weight caused the floorboards to creak and a small rumble under the floor. Batman could cross galaxies without anyone blinking an eye, but couldn’t walk down the hall without causing Titus’s ears to perk up and become a bit more alert. Damian bit the inside of his cheek and sat up, running his hand over his dog’s flank. He briefly wondered the reason for his father coming into his room -- but wasn’t given much time, as seconds later the door creaked open and Bruce stepped inside.

“Good afternoon, Damian.”

Formal as always. Damian quite liked it -- it showed an air of respect between the two. Bruce would not talk down to Damian the way the others did, would not treat him as if he were less than. In return, Damian would do the same. He raised his head and looked at his father. “Afternoon, father. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His father sat on the bed, the mattress dipping down. Damian tilted his head as he studied his father’s face for the topic of this confrontation. He didn’t seem too dour or disappointed. In fact, he was slightly enthusiastic. Damian fixed his posture a bit curiously as he looked up at his father.

“I have something for you.”

It occurred to Damian then that there was something in his hand. It looked like a… a book?

_Hm_. 

What kind of book would Bruce have gotten for Damian? He’s already read most, if not all the classics, and he wasn’t particularly a fan of modern literature. Bruce knew of the copious amount of books on his bookshelf. Perhaps it was one of those books Grayson was always nagging him to read, like _Harry Potter_ or _Percy Jackson_. Neither of which interested him in the slightest.

Upon closer look, he realized the book had no title on the front cover. It must have been on the spine, as he couldn’t quite see it from the way Bruce was holding it.

“A book, father? You know me so well.” His voice was laced in playful sarcasm, a smirk on his face. 

Bruce chuckled a bit, a small, sweet sound. “Not quite.”

Damian furrowed his eyebrows. Bruce held the supposed book out for Damian to look at.

He ran his fingers over the hand-bound leather on the front cover. The leather was a pleasing burgundy with black floral designs on the front. Damian traced over the design with an air of intrigue. Not usually was he given a gift so valuable. It was his understanding his father didn’t trust him with such niceties. Perhaps he had changed his mind?

Well, Damian wouldn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.

He realized what it was when he opened the cover, only to be met with blank, lined paper.

“A journal?”

His voice didn’t have its usual vicious bite, washed away by the shock, easily mistaken for _awe_ , and the teeming curiosity. He knew there was most certainly a catch, but he let his curious intrigue take over, if just for the moment. It wasn’t often his father presented him with a _gift_. There was no point; Damian didn’t celebrate Christmas and he never told his father when his birthday was. (Birthdays were frivolous, anyway.)

He tried to think of a reason for it. Perhaps it was an apology? But, his father had nothing to apologize for. Patrols had been going smoothly, only the occasional spat between them that was quickly resolved with a few minutes of silence. The last true _fight_ they had was over a month ago, and it had been resolved with a rather uncomfortable heart-to-heart.

His father nodded. There was a certain fondness on his face, as if he thought this was some sort of _genius_ move on his part. Damian didn’t see it. It was simply a book with no words — Damian’s least favorite kind.

He wasn’t a _writer,_ and Bruce knew that. And if the paper was for drawings, it wouldn’t be lined. Bruce knew that was Damian’s biggest pet peeve. What did he expect Damian to write? About his day? Damian could think of a million other things he could be doing than writing about his _day._

Though there was a small spark on his face, most likely pride on his own part, his eyes were still dull. They have been since Damian arrived, and they always will be. Richard had informed him early on that they have been like that for a long time, long before Damian came into the picture, which helped ease the fear that it was somehow his fault. Before he learned about his supposed _brother_ , Jason Todd, he had wondered what it took to break The Batman. As he has learned, though, it didn’t take much to break such a strong man. A _glass cannon_ , as they called it.

It’s the reason Damian knew he would be a fine successor. Superior, even. His father busied himself with children — with love and emotions and friendships. A foolish mistake on a hero’s part.

Didn’t he know heroes could never be happy?

Bruce put his calloused hands -- evident of a man in a constant war -- on the journal, thumbing through the pages. They were all blank, save for the rows of lines and small black flowers printed in the corners. The pages didn’t seem to end as Bruce went through each one. The paper was slick and soft when he reached to touch it. He carefully took the journal out of his father’s hands and held it in his own. It was about as thick as most novels, the pages about twice as big as his hands.

He was a bit dumbfounded, unsure what to say. A simple _thank you_ would suffice, but -- a _thank you,_ to Damian, meant next to nothing. It was a simple formality. He bit the inside of his bottom lip as he searched his mind for an appropriate reaction.

“I appreciate the gift.” He finally settled on, looking up at his father. The corners of his father’s lips tugged at a smile. It was his own, broken, Batman-y smile.

“Of course.”

His… happiness was unnatural, but, not exactly fake. It was just something Damian had never seen before, not in all its glory. But it was… nice? Sweet? Endearing?

It was something.

So Damian took the journal, without any fight. It was a pretty nice journal, all things considered. He could tell his father had spent a lot of money on it. Only the best for his sons, after all.

Bruce stood up and nodded to him before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. No hugs, no ruffling of the hair, no casual touch or “I love you.” That’s what he wanted. A touchy-feely father-son relationship didn’t appeal to him, not in the slightest. He wanted his father to see him as a worthy equal.

He took out his pen, the one he would usually use for sketches -- _doodles_ , as Grayson called them -- and put it to the paper. He bit his lip, trying to think of a way to start. He realized rather quickly that he was not a very skilled writer. The topic of creative writing never did have much use in the League. And his free time, if you could call it that, was spent with his paints and canvases. He pulled the pen away and stared down at the paper, now sporting a small blot of ink from where the pen was pressed down. The paper seemed to just _beg_ him to spill his heart. Well, that wouldn’t do. Damian’s heart belonged to Damian only, not a piece of paper. 

He supposed he could be rather superficial, surface level. He could just write what happened, and how he felt about it. After all, it was for Damian’s eyes only. Who would care if he wasn’t such a talented writer?

He put the pen back on the page and wrote something.

_Day One_

It was written in a perfect, loopy script, practically muscle memory for Damian at this point. Perfect handwriting ingrained into him, and he wasn’t really sure why -- there wasn’t much _writing_ when you’re an assassin.

He scrunched his nose a bit. No, he was not an assassin. He was Robin, a _good person,_ a _hero._ He wasn’t who he was back then. Though the blood was still on his hands, they were being cleaned, cleaned with guilt and benevolence. 

He shook the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t go down that road right now. He’d much rather just write something down than feel his mother’s phantom breath on his neck.

_Dear journal,_

No, no. That was stupid. Heat crawled up his neck -- how _stupid._ He bit his lip. How to start this… Can he just -- maybe just -- don’t start. Well, start, but -- not --

He huffed in frustration. This wasn’t going well. He tore out the page and crumpled it, tossing it aside into the trash bin. He started again.

_Day One_

_Today I_

He frowned and crossed it out.

~~_Today was interesting. My father gave me this jou_ ~~

~~_I had a rather good_ ~~

~~_Today was interesting becau_ ~~

~~_Today Father gave me a_ ~~

No, no, no, _no_. His grip on the pen tightened, biting the inside of his lip. Why couldn’t he just write what he wanted?

He felt like there was someone peering over his shoulder, judging every word he wrote. He felt goosebumps on his skin at the thought of it and quickly closed the journal, looking behind him.

Nobody.

_Idiot. There’s no one there._

He grunted and opened his journal again, pressing his pen against the paper. 

It was like his hand just refused to go further. He finally closed his eyes and took a long, sobering breath. It didn’t do any good to get angry at a _book_. Not when it was Damian’s fault he couldn’t write in the first place.

He kept writing.

_Day One._

_My father gave me this journal. I do not know what to write yet._

_— D.W._

Well, it was a start.


	2. Chapter 2

_Day Two_

~~_Today I_ ~~

~~_I did not_ ~~

_Today was_ ~~_very good_ _great_~~ _interesting. Patrol went well. Father seems to think I’ve improved._

_— D.W._

  
  


_Day Three_

_Today I_ ~~_ruined_ ~~ _messed up our patrol. I let one of the thieves get away._ ~~_They managed to_ ~~ _I was not paying enough attention. Father has benched me due to a sprained ankle._ _I ~~hope tomorrow will be b~~ _ _I will learn from this._

_— D.W._

  
  


_Day Four_

_Today was not any better. I am still benched. Father went out with Drake instead._ ~~_I do not unders_ ~~ _I will be sure to prove my worth next time._

_— D.W._

  
  


The next day rolled around and Damian’s ankle was still injured. He refused to use those asinine, clumsy crutches and it was too much of a hassle to use a wheelchair, so he chose to ‘stay in bed.’ Despite his itch to go out as a Robin again and his immeasurable boredom, it was probably the best option for him. He was able to catch up on some much needed sleep, as well as use his sketchbook. Every so often, his eyes would drift to the journal on his bedside table, sitting from the night before, waiting patiently to be used. Damian felt a sense of loathing, and his grip on his pen tightened, pulling it up from the paper where he’d been drawing a sleeping Titus. He huffed and shook his head, looking back down at his sketch. It was like the book was _asking_ him to write in it. The more he looked at it, the more frustrated he became. He continued to sketch, his muscles more tense than they were before.

He’s about halfway done with his sketch when he hears a knock at the door. He hummed without looking up, raising his voice a little as he called for the person to come in. Most likely Pennyworth with his lunch.

But the door opened way too quickly and _enthusiastically_ to be Pennyworth. His head snapped up and he was quickly met with Grayson’s gleaming face. His lively blue eyes that could rival the sun on a good day. They weren’t like Father’s, they were warm, they were, for a lack of better words, _happy_ . Weren’t _broken._

“Hey, Little D,” he smiled as he plopped down on the bed, making him bounce a bit. Damian had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the ridiculous nickname.

“Grayson.” He bit out, crossing his arms as he set his sketchbook aside. “How are you?”

Dick’s smile widened and he reached out, ruffling the younger one’s hair. Damian huffed and pushed his hand away quickly. Dick wasn’t deterred, just laughed it off and pulled his hand back. “Good! It’s nice to see you.”

Damian furrowed his eyebrows. He was in an… oddly good mood, even by Dick Grayson’s standards. It was suspicious.

“You as well.” He grumbled out in reply, grabbing his sketchbook again. Dick’s eyes wandered from his face to the book on his nightstand.

“So, Bruce told me about your new project.” A smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the book.

Damian’s heart skipped a beat. _No_ . Grayson was absolutely _not_ getting into that book. If anyone got into that book, Damian would probably _die_ of humiliation. He slapped his brother’s hand away and glared at him, face contorting into a grumpy frown.

“Don’t touch it.”

His voice was laced with so much venom it actually made Dick’s eyes widen. Good. Damian wouldn’t let him get to his book. It was _his._ In a ‘home’ where a tracker was sewn into every shirt -- he should at least be granted _that_ sense of privacy.

Dick brushed it off quickly. At least the man knew when not to press. “Alright, fine. How is it going?”

Damian furrowed his eyebrows. That was a good question. Certainly not _bad,_ but, he did have to admit, it hasn’t been the best of weeks. Being benched from patrol was annoying and boring as always, not to mention the fact Father had completely replaced him. And this _new project_ definitely wasn’t helping.

“Fine.” He eventually settled on, sitting back against the headboard. “Why are you here?”

Dick laughed, and _why the hell did he laugh?_ It was just a question.

“I can’t visit my little brother sometimes just because?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a waste of your time and mine, but, I suppose you can.”

Dick nodded, most likely knowing it was the best answer he was going to get that wasn’t a _no._ “Sweet. So, what have you written about so far?”

Damian has to stop himself from scowling. He really did not want to talk about this. As if him _having_ the journal wasn’t humiliating enough. Now people had to _know._

“Certain things.” He said, the perfect non-answer. 

Dick snorted. “C’mon, tell me! Is it poetry?”

Damian’s nose scrunched up. “Why would I write poetry?” He definitely was _not_ a poet.

“I don’t know! You won’t tell me anything!” Dick laughed, laughed like Damian had just told a hilarious _joke_ . Why was he laughing? Damian didn’t understand. He didn’t _understand_ Grayson, and it annoyed the hell out of him. He acted so strange, so _unlike anything else,_ and then the rest of them acted like _Damian_ was the weird one for not understanding. It was so _frustrating._

Their little _talk_ was interrupted (thank god) by a timid knock at the door.   
  
“Damian?” Bruce mumbled. “May I come in?”

He noticed Dick tense a little bit. Hm.

“You may.”

Bruce entered the room and stood beside his bed. He looked tentative, almost _nervous._ It was a strange sight. He fiddled with the cuffs of his jacket and stared straight into Damian’s eyes. He could see the apprehensiveness in his eyes as he sat on the bed next to his eldest son, making it depress further down. Damian pushed himself further against the headboard and raised an eyebrow at his father.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, Damian.”

Dick looked between the two and furrowed his eyebrows. He didn’t understand it, of course he didn’t. Dick thought of Damian as a mere _child,_ who didn’t _deserve_ to be respected. 

Bruce’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed. Damian’s stare didn’t falter.

“Is there something you need to speak to me about?”

He hummed, chest rising slowly, and with it, the tension. “Indeed there is.”

Damian bit the inside of his bottom lip. Talking to his father was sometimes like pulling teeth.

“What about, Father?”

Bruce looked at Dick, sharing a knowing glance. So Grayson _did_ know. That’s why he was here. 

“Grayson?”

Grayson swallowed thickly before he started to speak up. “Damian, listen—” 

But he didn’t get the chance to continue, as Bruce quickly spoke over him.

“We’re enrolling you in a private school.”

The words made Damian freeze up.

_...What?_

Damian had never, _ever_ been to any sort of school institution. He didn’t _need_ it. Children were snotty and disgusting. Not to mention _stupid._ When he was with his mother, he was taught from the best of the best, one on one, and since he’s come to Gotham, he’s been tutored by Pennyworth, no matter how much he pushed at first that he didn’t need it. 

He did _not_ want to stop tutoring with Pennyworth. Truth be told, tutoring with Pennyworth was _fun._

Pennyworth was an interesting man. He spoke of history as if he was _there_ , he taught science as if it were magic, he spoke of math as if it were learning a new language. He let Damian take the ropes of his own education, let him learn what he _wanted,_ let him go the pace he liked. He’d gone from being annoyed with father for making him put up with these frivolous activities to being _excited_ when Pennyworth came into his room with a new textbook.

_No way in hell_ was he giving that up for _private schooling,_ where the students knew less than the grass growing outside and the teachers knew even less than the students.

“You can’t be serious.”

They were the first words to come out of his mouth, his knee-jerk reaction. Because this was _not_ happening. No way.

Dick’s face soured. “B, I told you he’d--”

Damian growled. Dick knew about this? He thought Grayson knew him well enough to know there wasn’t a _chance_ this was happening. Damian wouldn’t _let it._

“He doesn’t have a choice.” Bruce said sternly. 

“I’m not going!” Damian shot up from his bed, balling his hands into fists. “I don’t need it!”

“You _need_ to make some friends.” Bruce hissed. “You sit here alone all day, you never _talk_ to anyone, it’s unhealthy!”

“I don’t _need_ friends!” Damian retorted. Dick stood up as well, getting in between the father and son. Clearly, he was trying to find a way to deescalate the conversation. “Hey--”

“You’re going to school,” Bruce growled, “and that’s _final.”_

Before Damian had the chance to fight back, Bruce spun around and shut the door, leaving Damian and Dick alone.

Which was bad for Dick, because Damian needed to let out his anger, and if it wasn’t Bruce, then it was whoever was left.

“Dami--”

“I can’t _believe_ you--” he hissed, curling his hands into fists, “you’re on _board_ with this!?”

Dick frowned sadly. Damian knew Dick hated when Damian was mad at him. Good. _Good._

“Dami, I didn’t like it either at first. But -- I started looking into it, and this school really does seem perfect for you!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pamphlet of Damian’s ‘new school.’ “C’mon, just look through it, it’s actually really--”

“I don’t _care.”_ Damian growled, taking the pamphlet and throwing it aside. “You are _not_ making me go to a private school with a bunch of--”

_“Damian,”_ Dick said, exasperated, “please. Just work with me here. This really _is_ the best option there is.”

Damian shook his head, because Dick _knew_ that was a blatant lie, the _best option_ would be keeping things as they were.

Dick sighed shakily when Damian didn’t respond. “Just-- please, think about it?”  
  


“No.” Damian said matter-of-factly. “Now get out.”

Dick looked at him sadly and _god_ Damian just hated his big-blue-eyed sad look. The older brother finally turned around and left the room.

Damian fell onto his bed, letting out a frusterated groan. Come _on._ It wasn’t fair. Damian absolutely _did not need_ schooling and both Bruce and Dick knew it. They just liked to make him _suffer,_ Damian decided. Why else would they put him through this?

He looked at the pamphlet like it was the devil incarnate. Stupid Grayson. Stupid father. Stupid everyone and _everything_.

He only skimmed through the pamphlet. A few things seemed interesting, but everything else just made him loathe it more.

He furiously grabbed his notebook and started writing.

_Day Five_

_Today was_ ~~_horrible_ ~~ _unfortunate. My father is planning to send me to a private school._

He growled. Just writing it down made him angry.

_~~I do not want to~~ _ _Private school is not for me. Pennyworth is already giving me tutoring, ~~so~~ _ ~~_I do not understa_ ~~ _this change is rather confusing and irritating. Grayson has told me to be less pessimistic about the ordeal, and to write a list of good things that will come from this change. I will write the list below._

  1. _The school has an art program._
  2. ~~_Father_~~ _The teachers seem like they know what they’re doing._



_That is all I can think of._

_— D.W._


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Damian woke up to a school uniform on the foot of his bed. He growled and kicked it off as he pulled the covers over his head again. He could already tell today was going to be a bad day. 

He closed his eyes, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. Maybe he would wake up and this would all be a terrible nightmare.

His hopes were dashed rather quickly by a knock at the door. 

“Master Damian?” Alfred called, opening the door slightly to poke his head through. “Are you awake?”

He rolled his eyes at the redundant question. A part of him wanted to lie and pretend he  _ was _ still asleep, but that would only last for so long before the butler tried again. And Damian wasn’t really a fan of delaying the inevitable. He sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“I’m awake.” He muttered reluctantly. Alfred opened the door, scanning the room for a moment. He sighed when he noticed the clothes on the floor and picked them up, brushing the dust off. (As if there was any dust — Damian’s room was spotless.)

“Master Damian, I advise you not to wrinkle your school uniform on the first day. It’s very unbecoming.”

Damian bit the inside of his cheek to hide a retort. The first day? No way he was starting school the  _ day _ after he found out he was going. Surely his father wasn’t  _ that _ cruel.

He slid off his bed. “Am I starting school today?” He asked dryly, running a hand through his hair to untangle it.

“No. Today you’re just taking a tour of the school.”

That should have made Damian feel better, but it only worsened his mood. This was all a waste of time, anyway. Chances are Damian would get perfect grades and Bruce would no longer see a point in keeping him there. He snatched the clothes from Alfred and disappeared into the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He quite liked his appearance — the slick black hair of his father, the darkish skin and piercing green eyes of his mother. Damian thought above of judging himself (and others) on physical appearance, but he could acknowledge he was more handsome than most kids his age.

He was sure to be quick as he undressed and changed into his school uniform. There were grey striped dress pants that fit well on his slender figure, as well as a white button up and blue blazer. All were perfectly fitted in his size, which he could at least appreciate. He took one last look at himself in the mirror before exiting and nodded towards Alfred.

Alfred looked over him and hummed. “Where’s your tie?”

He furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at himself. “I don’t need one.”

“Nonsense.” The older man smiled, a hint of playfulness in his voice. “I’ll help you put it on.”

Before Damian had the chance to protest (and he was  _ absolutely  _ going to, because surely Alfred didn’t think him so inept he couldn’t tie a simple  _ tie),  _ he was being pushed back into the bathroom in front of the mirror. Alfred grabbed the discarded tie from the floor and started tying it onto Damian.

Damian huffed and tried grabbing his hands. “Pennyworth, this is quite unnecessary…”

Alfred shooed his hands away and nodded in satisfaction as he finished his handiwork. Damian looked at Alfred through the mirror, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards slightly. It was Damian’s little  _ thank you. _

Alfred smiled in response and patted Damian’s back. “Alright. Breakfast is waiting downstairs.” He pulled away and left Damian by himself.

Damian fiddled with his tie in the mirror for a moment. Alfred seemed quite optimistic about Damian’s new school. But why? Didn’t he  _ like  _ teaching Damian?

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He muttered to himself absently, tugging his pants up higher. “Of course he did.”

He grabbed his sketchbook and charcoal just in case.It would be good for him to learn the layout of the school before he went, lest he got lost on his way to class. How embarrassing  _ that  _ would be.

Arriving downstairs, he immediately took note of the fact no one else was in the dining room. Alfred, most likely seeing the perplexity on his face, smiled.

“Master Bruce has already left for work, and Master Tim is at school.”

Damian opened his mouth to say something, but it seemed Alfred had already read his mind. “You will not be attending the same school as Master Tim.”

Damian nodded, a little relieved. Going to school was bad enough, but going to school with  _ Timothy?  _ That was a fate worse than death.

Damian sat at the table, waiting patiently for his breakfast. Titus was seated under the table, chewing on one of the large bones Damian had bought for him. He ducked under the table and pet his head softly.

Alfred came in with his breakfast on a platter

and set it down in front of him. “Be quick, sir, we’re leaving soon.”

Damian nodded and began to eat. He wasn’t exactly  _ nervous  _ for the upcoming day — he was not a nervous person. Nothing made him nervous. But he certainly wasn’t  _ looking forward  _ to this. A new school, with stupid children and stupid teachers teaching things he’d already learned when he was five —  _ ugh.  _ He was  _ so  _ ready for it to be over already.

Breakfast was over quicker than he would’ve liked, and soon enough he was in the car. He rested his head against the glass, watching the trees pass by as Alfred drove him to his new  _ prison— er, school. _

“Nervous, Master Damian?” Alfred asked suddenly, a coy smile on his face. Damian shot him a quick glare.

The boy tutted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Would you like me to hold your hand?”

_ “Ha-ha.” _

Alfred smiled in satisfaction and tilted his chin up. Damian rolled his eyes and looked back out the window, keeping an eye out for the school.

“Are we close?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Damian’s face scrunched up. “Is it a crime to want to know?”

Alfred smiled a bit and sighed. “You truly are your father’s son.”

The conversation died down as Damian bit his lip nervously. No, he was  _ not  _ nervous.

“We’ve arrived.” Alfred suddenly announced, sending a slight shiver down his spine.

He stepped out of the car with Alfred and looked at the school. The campus was large, definitely larger than he expected it to be, but the building itself was rather small. At least it would be easier to get around.

An older woman with glasses in a burgundy suit and grey pencil skirt was waiting at the front with a few papers. She flashed a bright -- very obviously  _ fake --  _ smile at the duo and stepped closer.

“Hello! You must be Damian Wayne, nice to meet you! My name is Mrs. Gerber.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. Her fake enthusiasm was already giving him a headache. “Hello.”

Alfred and Mrs. Gerber exchanged formalities and soon enough they were inside, taking a tour of the school. Damian opened his sketchbook and started drawing the outline of the school. Cartography was a powerful tool in the League, and it was easy for Damian to draw up maps of just about anything. Studying the outline of the building hopefully would keep him prepared for when he had to navigate around the school. God forbid he ever got lost and needed to  _ ask someone— _

“Damian?” Mrs. Gerber suddenly said. Damian looked up at her with furrowed brows, annoyed she had broken his train of thought.

“Yes?”

“Oh, I just asked if you had any extra curricular activities you were interested in.”

Damian shook his head. “No.”

“Okay! Well, if you ever change your mind, you can talk to the school counselor about taking some electives.”

Damian nodded absently, looking at the decor of the school. There was a mural painted on one of the brick walls — a very shitty mural — of a green landscape with children of all different colors and sizes holding hands. The corner of his lip turned up in amusement — how quaint.

“Ah, you like the mural?” Mrs. Gerber smiled, noticing where his gaze was pointed. “That was painted two years ago as a gift from our seniors.”

Damian fought back a gag. If  _ that’s  _ the best the seniors here could do, maybe this place was even worse than he thought.

The rest of the tour went by easily, neither Alfred nor Damian asking many questions. Alfred knew it wasn’t his place, and Damian — well, he just didn’t really care. Though he  _ was _ able to draw up a rather detailed map. 

Thankfully, Alfred didn’t say much as he drove the boy home. If it were Bruce, he would have scolded Damian for not being more engaged with Gerber. It’s not Damian’s fault the woman was hopelessly uninteresting.

“You’ll have your first day on Monday. Master Dick will drive you.” Alfred told him as they walked back from the car to the manor. Damian couldn’t really decide if that were better or worse than just having Alfred do it, so he decided not to give a reaction.

_ Monday.  _ Four days. That definitely was not enough time. Then again, all the time in the  _ world _ wasn’t enough time. This was going to be a disaster. If his father genuinely thought this would  _ work,  _ maybe Damian had been giving his brain a little too much credit in the past.

He bid a quiet goodbye to Alfred and went back up to his room, immediately pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his jacket. Titus sat up, happily strolling to his side and nuzzling his cheek. Damian pet his snout gently, leaning into him.

“You won’t believe what’s happening, Titus.” He sighed and scratched behind his ear, then flopped onto his bed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his notebook. He grabbed it and opened to the next page, gritting his teeth.

_ Day Six _

_ I hate school. I have not been to it yet, but I know I hate it. ~~I hope~~ I know Father will change his mind before Monday.  _

_ Today I toured the school with Alfred. ~~I am thankful that he~~ It is good that he went with me as he did not speak much. The school is terrible. Mrs. Garner (?) is annoying. _

_ If I do have to go to school, I ~~hope~~ I know that I will excel. _

_ — D.W. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was uneventful. school starts soon!

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @bratwonders


End file.
